49

H1 arrived about twenty minutes later. I first saw him at the corner of my street, crossing against the light, and soon thereafter heard the gentle jingle of my intercom. I buzzed him in and he appeared, attoseconds later, in the vestibule, as dishevelled and out of sorts as you’d expect, as he was when I last saw him. Before he passed out in his tomato soup.

Do you have anything to drink? he said, by way of introduction or reintroduction.

I motioned for him to follow me to the kitchen, where I mixed up a pitcher of Singani Bloody Marys:

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2 OZ SINGANI 63
2 OZ FRESH TOMATO JUICE
.25 OZ FRESH LEMON JUICE
4 DASHES TABASCO SAUCE
1 DASH WORCESTERSHIRE SAUCE
1 BAR SPOON HORSERADISH
3 PINCHES PEPPER
1 PINCH SALT

STIR INGREDIENTS. POUR INTO A HIGHBALL GLASS WITH ICE. GARNISH WITH VEGETABLES YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH.

Multiply that by eighteen, because I made a lot. I pulled some mouldy Cantal wrapped in paper (not wasting the good stuff on an impostor, or imposture, or this guy) from the fridge and laid it on a plate with an open box of stale water crackers and a few slices of prosciutto. H1 ate automatically, as if he didn’t even taste his food (a hanging offence in France, but we weren’t in France, so I let him slide), and drank his Bloody Mary quickly, as if trying to steady his nerves, or as if trying to convince me he was trying to steady his nerves. I watched him carefully while simulating not watching him carefully. He noticed, as I’d hoped he would.

This other man, this—

I call him H2, I said. He claims to be you. He says you’re an actor he’s hired as front man for his literary output.

But this is preposterous!

Improbable. But not impossible.

I am, I have… how does one prove that one is oneself?

Why did you want to hire me to translate your new book?

I told you, I read your translation of… of… He dropped his head, defeated.

My editor said you were good, he said. Too good for you was how she put it. I cannot judge the quality of anything translated into or from French. I’m a writer. I only need to know one language.

Did you expect me to translate a book you haven’t yet written? I asked him.

What? Of course not. The new novel is finished. It’s about—

I don’t care what it’s about, I interrupted.

To translate a book that hasn’t been written, he mused. That would be impossible.

Turns out. Listen, why not call her, then? Your editor. She rang here not long ago, looking for you.

I don’t trust her. She’s probably in on it. I don’t trust anyone. Not yet.

You never answered my question. Why did you pick me to translate your new book?

It’s difficult to explain. Something about you—

I’m not a fan, I said. Of your writing, I mean. Your editor should have told you that.

She did. Naturally this made me more determined to hire you. Also she said that you were very… alluring.

You thought maybe I’d fuck you to get the job?

I thought maybe this was possible.

Have you looked in the mirror recently?

My appearance has in the past not proved a barrier when it comes to attracting amatory partners.

I think you’re full of shit, I said. I think you only called me because you still think you have a shot.

No, I swear—

You gave me a plot description of Souvenirs du triangle d’or when I asked what your new book was about. Back when I was at all interested.

I have no memory of doing that. I have never read this book. Robbe-Grillet, correct?

Correct.

He was an old pervert. He only wrote to get off.

Says the old pervert.

Yes, but I write for other reasons too.

So did Robbe-Grillet.

I like some of his earlier books. Before he got into sadomasochism.

What else can you tell me about H2?

Who is H2?

The other you. The guy you claim drugged you and took your place. You must have done some digging.

I’ve been free for maybe three hours. No digging.

He was holding something back. It didn’t matter just then, but I could tell he knew more about H2 than he was saying. Even if, as he claimed, and as I could well believe (having watched him pitch forward into his tomato soup), he hadn’t managed to see the man who replaced him, he had ideas. Which for now he was unwilling to share.

He finished off his Bloody Mary with impressive speed. I’d only drunk a major third of mine.

Let’s refill your drink, shall we? I said. I got up and fetched the pitcher off the kitchen counter.

He sniffled: copiously; waterishly. Tears of gratitude, I suppose. Or maybe he was a junkie going through the early phases of withdrawal. Either way, I had to cut it short.

No crying in my house. That’s my cardinal rule.

He wiped his face on the edge of his frayed olive-green herringbone blazer.

I’m sorry.

Don’t apologise. Just don’t cry.

OK.

I’m not going to sleep with you, either.

OK.

Stop saying ‘OK’. It’s getting on my nerves.

But you do it all the time, he whined.

OK.

Did I tell you I’m wearing sixty-dollar boxer shorts?